


The Talk (or: The Problem of Uncle Superman)

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: If you’re going to insist on raising a telepathic starfish and keeping him on the team, the least you can do is be open with your thoughts and feelings.





	The Talk (or: The Problem of Uncle Superman)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metropolisjournal (TKodami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/gifts).



> For one of the most hard-working and admirable people I know (who also happens to be the most deserving of a tiny starfish friend). ❤️

After a particularly long night that bled into an especially early morning, the Justice League finally dispersed and went their separate ways. They’d spent nearly eighteen hours on a particularly tough battle that had required Clark and Victor to take a fight to the stars while the flightless members of the group defended a small, nondescript American town from a horde of horrifying yet ultimately unmemorable creatures. The threat had been taken care of, and Bruce was ready to return to his lakeside home and settle down for a long and well-deserved nap.

_Thanks for helping out today, Superman!_

Jarro stood proudly atop Bruce’s shoulder, squinting in Clark’s direction as the rising sun bathed the top of the Gotham skyscraper and those still standing on its roof in a golden light. It had touched them before it would touch the rest of the city, and would have been beautiful if Bruce hadn’t been so concerned about peeling himself out of his suit and crawling into bed.

“You don’t need to call me Superman,” Clark said warmly, inclining his head toward Jarro with a fond expression. It was not the first time he’d said this, and Bruce couldn’t fathom how he could remain so calm after repeating it at least thrice each time they teamed up. “Just Clark.”

_Roger that_ , Jarro replied, miming a salute with one arm. 

Clark smiled again, then turned to Bruce. “Well, all things considered, that was relatively painless. No losses, no major damage done. Nothing that can’t be fixed with a little time and effort.”

“And therapy,” Bruce acquiesced. He was still learning to agree with Clark without adding something inflammatory to his sentences—something like ‘relatively painless for an alien who can fly into the sun, but not for the incredibly fragile people made of flesh and blood who could not fly into the sun or escape a horde of horrifying yet ultimately unmemorable creatures’. He assumed there was just something about the Kryptonian skinsuit that made him combative, like a bull seeing a red cape fluttering in the wind. It made for a nice change of pace in bed, but it simply wouldn’t do for a public meeting like this. “You’ll take care of the alien?”

“The _Martian_ ,” Clark corrected. He rested a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if to say ‘I forgive you for being unable to properly address extraterrestrials without injecting some element of distrust into your vocabulary’, and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him and smooth things over. If I can find him,” he added as an afterthought, then grinned. “So I’ll see you guys later.”

_See you later, Uncle Clark!_ Jarro called. Bruce was never sure why Jarro’s tone indicated that he was raising his voice. All psychic discussion was the same volume inside their heads, as it had nothing to do with vibrations or auditory systems or even especially obvious body language. It was fascinating that he’d picked up on the way people spoke, and more fascinating that he was able to recreate the effect, if somewhat diluted, in telepathic speech. 

Clark lifted a hand in farewell, the corner of his amused smile visible for only a moment before he turned and blasted off, leaving the edges of Bruce’s cape fluttering in the breeze and a long trail of vapour in the sky, and when Bruce and Jarro were alone at last Bruce let his breath out in a slow, controlled hiss and turned toward the edge of the building.

“Stop calling him ‘uncle’. He’s not related to me.”

Jarro plopped himself down on Bruce’s shoulder, though it hardly made a difference through the thick material of his suit. To date, Bruce had found no evidence to suggest that standing for any length of time on any number of legs would fatigue Jarro, who seemed content to sit in place and hold onto the side of Bruce’s cape and was feeding off of his irritation with a childish glee. _Why not? You guys are super close. Isn’t he supposed to be like a brother to you? You know,_ the Justice League is the family you choose _and all?_

“He’s my partner,” Bruce corrected sternly. He pulled his grapnel from his hip, suddenly desperate to have something for his hands to do, but this was the highest building in the city. He had nowhere higher to grapple to. All he could do was fall. “We work together. And nobody says that about the Justice League. Where did you hear that?”

_Partner, riiiight,_ Jarro said. _Partner Clark._

“Why are you saying it like—hold on tight,” Bruce said before leaping from the roof. He’d learned once before that Jarro always needed to be reminded to stay close before they entered a free fall, and he’d never forgotten since.

_Like he’s your partner? You just said it yourself._

Jarro clung to the clasp of Bruce’s cape; it bothered Bruce that he insisted on remaining up front, rather than securing himself safely beneath the cape or in some sort of harness. Maybe he simply liked the feeling of the wind in his ossicles. “I didn’t say it like that.”

_Okay, okay. Touchy subject. Let’s talk about this city instead. Man, what a dump._

It wasn’t a touchy subject, the topic of him and _partner Clark_ , but Bruce was glad to temporarily drop the conversation all the same.

☆

“You don’t have to be so hard on him, you know. Jarro.”

Clark’s voice was muffled by the towel covering his head. He re-emerged with wild hair and straightened up, his gaze already on Bruce like he’d been watching him through the cotton veil.

Bruce lifted a shoulder. “You like being called Uncle Superman?”

“I don’t _dislike_ it. And it’s not like he means anything by it anyway.” Clark crawled back into bed with the towel around his neck. His skin was still somewhat damp from his shower, and he hummed with pleasure as he settled himself against Bruce’s side. “Honestly, I think he’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. You’re a hero to him, Bruce, and most of his experience in the League involves watching you bark out orders to everyone else you work with. Of course someone who didn’t know better would see that as a sign of respect. It means he’s part of the League.”

Bruce buried his nose in Clark’s hair and sighed. Despite having smelled like sweat and lube not half an hour ago, Clark now carried the sort of clean, fresh scent that made Bruce want to fold him up and store him somewhere safe, like a well-loved blanket. It wasn’t the sort of characteristic that Jarro would ever notice about Clark, nor likely one that he would ever be able to comprehend; to Jarro, Clark was simply a fellow extraterrestrial, powerful and superhuman and an integral part of the team. Bruce respected Clark, and so Jarro respected him too, defending him with an unexpected and often unwarranted passion.

“Behold my influence,” Bruce murmured against Clark’s scalp. “Maybe I’ll give him a special assignment for his birthday so he knows I care about him.”

“The fact that you’re planning to acknowledge his birthday at all will be more than enough for him. Trust me, you’re a better influence than you think.” 

Clark curled his arm around Bruce’s waist and tucked his head beneath Bruce’s chin. Bruce was already picturing a birthday party, complete with multicoloured streamers and a tiny, star-shaped cake that Jarro could evert his stomach onto. 

He smiled to himself.

“But there’s still the problem of Uncle Superman.”

“Mm. What’s the problem, again?”

“He’s a smart kid. Too smart to think we aren’t hiding something.”

“Then let him think we’re hiding something,” Clark murmured, brushing his fingers idly over Bruce’s side. “But give him clues. It makes it easier to tell the truth if you’re not lying outright.”

“I’m not lying to him.”

“Omission is just as bad,” Clark insisted, quiet but firm. “If you’re going to insist on raising a telepathic starfish and keeping him on the team, the least you can do is be open with your thoughts and feelings.”

Bruce pressed another kiss to the top of Clark’s head. “Maybe,” he said, but he knew Clark was right. He’d have to bring their relationship up soon. Jarro had his own ways of discovering what was going on, and he likely wouldn’t take kindly to realizing that Bruce had been leaving out a particularly important detail if Bruce didn’t tell him first. “If I can find a way to work it into a conversation, I’ll… have the talk with him.”

“Thank you.” Clark relaxed against him, and in a way, Bruce felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, too. He slid his fingers through Clark’s hair, slicking it back for only a moment before the stubborn, damp strands fell back into place in a slow and rhythmic ritual that was sure to lull them both to sleep. Clark hummed contentedly and tilted his head catlike against Bruce’s palm, seemingly satisfied with the conversation’s conclusion and the comfortable silence that settled over them. Bruce rested his head against Clark’s and closed his eyes. Maybe this would be the easiest way for him to explain their relationship. Jarro didn’t need to know the details of their every interaction, but he understood friendship quite clearly, and he was capable of admiration and other human emotions. Maybe that was all Bruce needed to say. I admire Superman. He makes me feel.

“Do you think alien starfish have any concept of…” 

Clark was quiet for so long that Bruce was beginning to suspect that he’d fallen asleep. “Sex?”

Bruce barked a laugh before he could stop himself. He wasn’t even sure what regular starfish understood of the concept of sexual intercourse. A psychic starfish was an entirely different story. “I was going to say devotion.”

“Oops.” Clark slung a leg over one of Bruce’s. His voice had begun to take on a lazy drawl, his natural, unguarded midwestern accent. He was close to falling sleep, and Bruce was strongly considering changing up the speech he would inevitably have to deliver to Jarro. That feeling you get when Superman dozes off with his head against your chest, years after you nearly destroyed his? That’s it, kid. “Dunno. Maybe you can lead with that.”

“...Or I could lead with sex,” Bruce suggested after a long and thoughtful pause.

Clark chuckled softly.

☆

It took another two weeks for the topic to come up again. Jarro had ceased calling Clark by a formal title, but Bruce was only able to listen to him say ‘Dad’s Kryptonian Partner’ so many times before he finally turned and announced, “I wanted to talk to you about Clark and me.”

 _Uh-oh,_ Jarro said. He regarded Bruce with suspicion—his single eye narrowed, upper arms folded downward and pressed just above his bottom arms like disapproving hands on hips—and Bruce had the faint impression he was being mocked. _Is this the part where you confess that you tried to murder him one time?_

Bruce folded his arms over his chest in return.

“That was a long time ago.”

_So you wanna confess that you_ still _want to murder him?_

Bruce wet his lips and gazed down at the table that Jarro stood on. “No. This isn’t about trying to murder anyone. It’s about… moving past that. Learning to put aside your differences to work together.”

_Being partners,_ Jarro said.

“Right.”

_Being leaders of a team._

“Exactly,” Bruce said, taking a seat on a rolling stool at the edge of the table. “And more than that, it’s about… trust. He’s my partner because he trusts me, and because I trust him.”

_What do you trust each other with?_

Bruce tilted his head and rested his elbows on the table. “What do you mean?”

_I mean you guys must trust each other with something important, if you feel like you have to explain what trust is._

“Well,” Bruce said, then took a deep breath. “Actually, we do. And that’s what I wanted to discuss.”

Jarro was beginning to sway forward, a gesture that Bruce had begun to associate with eagerness. He took a step toward Bruce and his single eye narrowed expectantly. _So…?_

“So… in earning and developing that trust over the past few years, we… also developed a… certain respect. An admiration for—”

_Oh, thank god,_ Jarro said. He rubbed one of his arms above his fleshy brow in an imitation of wiping away sweat. _I thought you were gonna say you guys @#*$ at one point._

Bruce blinked as Jarro turned and began to walk away, returning to the small pile of nuts and bolts and scrap metal he’d been tinkering with.

“Ah, that’s—crude,” Bruce said, still a bit stunned. He felt like wiping sweat from his brow, too. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

_Sorry,_ ‘engaged in sexual intercourse’, Jarro amended, holding up two arms and curling the tips in a gesture that Bruce assumed was meant to indicate quotation marks. _Isn’t that what you guys call it? @#*%?_

“Jarro,” Bruce scolded, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little, because what starfish in any universe knew what fucking was? Many earth starfish were asexual reproducers. Most spawned. None were particularly self-reflective about it, as far as Bruce could tell.

Jarro picked up a screwdriver. His sensory tubes rippled gently as he turned it around in his arms. _What? Is it supposed to be a secret?_

“No, it’s—yes, actually. It’s a private matter.”

_So I shouldn’t bring it up when I see him._

“I think it would be best for everyone if you didn’t,” Bruce agreed, watching as Jarro jabbed aimlessly at a few screws on the desk. The kid was probably doing it out of a desire to feel helpful, since it was unlikely that he could actually create something meaningful with his pile of scraps. After a moment, Bruce reached for a nearby wrench and held it out for Jarro to take. “So if we’re clear on that, I guess that’s all you need to know.”

_Don’t call him Uncle Superman, don’t call him your @#* partner in public, and don’t ask him if he wants to @#* you because you tried to kill him but now you trust each other. Easy._

Bruce rubbed one temple gently while Jarro placed the screwdriver on the table and took up the wrench instead. The thing was nearly twice the length of his body, but he seemed determined to use it. Despite his regret over this entire active conversation, Bruce felt a brief moment of pride, and decided he liked that feeling better than the feeling of scolding a very small alien who didn’t quite have a solid grasp on human social interactions.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “And keep up the good work over there.”

There was a clang as Jarro turned back toward him and allowed the wrench to clatter against the table.

_Thanks for telling the truth, dad,_ Jarro said. It sounded sincere, and it seemed to Bruce that if he’d said it out loud, he would have spoken softly too.

☆

Three days later, Clark dropped in for dinner.

Bruce was still unaccustomed to dining in the Hall of Justice. The kitchen was the same vast one he’d grown up in, but the manor had been gutted and rebuilt and refurnished in the years since it had first been abandoned, and Bruce barely recognized it as the same room at all. There was enough room for Jarro to sprint across the countertops, which he’d taken to doing as an endurance training exercise while Clark insisted on chopping carrots.

“So how are things with you?” Clark asked, turning his attention to the starfish on the other end of the carrot that was suddenly being brandished at him. “Is Bruce keeping you on a strict diet?”

_Yeah, you know how he is. Strict is usually his middle name. But he’s been pretty good lately, I guess._

“You guess?” Clark raised a brow at Bruce, who had knelt down briefly to produce another pot from within the depths of the cupboards. “Does he let you have dessert?”

Dessert for Jarro was not quite as destructive as it once was. Sometimes Bruce let him eat raw meat with his vegetables, but he had a sweet tooth and always requested, for reasons Bruce was certain he was close to discovering, a specific berry cheesecake from a specific bakery in Metropolis.

_Yep. He’s a pretty great dad. He tells me all his secrets._

“That makes one of us,” Clark said, aiming a warm smile at Bruce high over Jarro’s head as Bruce filled his pot with water. “Has he told you any good ones?”

_He said you felt left out when I called him Dad and that I should call you Dad too,_ Jarro said.

Bruce turned off the tap and cleared his throat. “Yes, that is what I said. He told me Superdad seemed like a weird thing to call you, so we shortened it to ‘dad’.”

He tried to convey a look that suggested more explanation was due whenever Jarro was not present, and he was fairly sure that Clark was aware that this was not at all what they’d originally discussed. 

Clark seemed more amused than anything, and when he stepped aside to allow Bruce to gather the diced carrot pieces, he brushed his fingers over Bruce’s bicep and mouthed ‘good job’.

“I guess that can’t hurt,” Clark said. “As long as you’re okay with it.”

_It’s cool with me,_ Jarro replied. _I’m just glad you guys are partners._

Bruce barely managed to maintain a neutral expression. Clark was less fortunate, and ended up smiling down at a half-peeled carrot that had, at some point between being picked up and being delivered to Clark, been partially digested on one end.

Clark sliced the end off and held it down for Jarro to take. “You know what, Jarro?” he asked fondly. “So am I.”


End file.
